Depression

My journey to and through Mitral Valve Replacement.

Dear Reader,

We’ve gotten to the part of my recovery that I am not sure how to write or talk about. I am a little hesitant to relive it because I don’t want to feel those old emotions again. Typically, when you write, you have a small hope of where you want the writing to go. You know what the end game of your piece is supposed to look like (sometimes), but for this one, I have no plan where it is going to end up. It will be an adventure for both of us.

So, here is a trigger warning for those with depression. I see you. I hear you. What you feel is real and valid. If you are still in the tender parts of your journey, this post may not be for you to read. Protect yourself.

Recovery from anything is like hiking on a rocky trail. It has its linear parts where days blend seamlessly from one to the next, no energy is required, things feel quiet, your mind wanders freely, and you feel…content. There are the downhill, smooth parts where you feel energized and things are moving and grooving. You realize you can walk further than you could the day before, you feel good, you slept well, laughed more, and stayed up a bit later because fatigue doesn’t get you. But then you encounter the uphill rocky parts where everything is hard. You slip and bruise easily, and are frustrated because yesterday things were fine, but today they aren't. You still feel pain, the meds have funky side effects, you tire easily, you still can’t focus, and you can’t find the energy it takes to heal. You just can’t. You can’t, you can’t. You. Can’t. And this is where I found myself two-ish weeks into my recovery.

I was tired of taking short walks. It was so hot outside, and my typical heat-tolerant self wasn’t having it. I was tired of only sleeping on my back. My left shoulder was in incredible pain, and I had no idea why. I couldn’t move it without shooting pain that made me want to cry. I was tired of being weak. But more importantly, I was tired of being a heart patient. Every day, I would inspect my incision looking for signs of healing. The purple storm cloud bruise now looked like black mold sprouting on the right side of my chest. I was completely numb from my shoulder down to mid-torso; however, there was a constant ache that felt like a boulder had taken up residence in my chest, pulling my skin down. Phone alarms ruled my life. They went off every two hours for pain meds and antibiotics. There were major antibiotics that I had to take every four hours for three weeks. Between the two prescriptions, I woke up at 11:00 pm, 1:00 am, 3:00 am, and 5:00 am every night. Sleep is what the body needs to heal, yet when you are on a strict medication regimen, it is impossible to get a full night’s rest.

There were so many follow-up doctor appointments that it was hard to keep up. On top of this, my blood was once again too thick, just like it was in the hospital. My cardiologist prescribed blood thinner shots. These had to be administered twice a day in the stomach. As I have mentioned in other posts, I hate needles. The idea of my skin being pierced makes me lightheaded. By this time in my recovery, my pain endurance had run out. My husband had to give me the shots, and each time, I would cry. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, cursing the world and sobbing for at least five minutes. Then, although still tearful, I would stand up, take a deep breath, and as I exhaled, my husband pushed the needle in. My anxiety was palpable; there was no controlling it.

On week three, I sat on my blue suede couch and thought, Everything I once thought I was, is now gone. This thought was the beginning of an unraveling that led to the heaviest, murkiest, stickiest depression I have ever experienced. The feeling of being nothing, having nothing, no identity, and no hope, combined with being weak and vulnerable, was where life seemed to stop for me. I was flattened. It was as if I was velcroed to that blue coach, and I could not move myself off of it except to go to bed. Then in the morning, I shuffled back to my blue island. The TV played mindless reruns of TV shows I had seen a million times. It is befuddling how you can watch and yet not watch something at the same time. As I sat there, I could track the slow spread of depression. It started in my stomach. It was a drop feeling, like when you are a child and you get caught doing something shameful. After the stomach drop feeling, my chest would fill with the sensation of being homesick. I wanted to go home, but I was home. Then a deep unrelenting sadness would take over my whole body, and I would cry. Tears constantly dripped from my eyes, and all I could do was let them fall.

It was my sister who told me that depression often happens in heart surgery patients. At my follow-up cardiologist's appointment, I told him I was feeling sad and depressed. He said, “You will be okay. You went through a lot,” and left me in his office with another prescription for another round of shots. I was lonely even though I was surrounded by family.

Depression causes the most severe loneliness one can ever experience. One particular Saturday morning, my husband went fishing. (A loved one’s illness takes its toll on family members and caregivers too. Fishing was his outlet.) As he packed up his gear I wanted to tell him to stay home. Please don’t go, please don’t leave me alone, but I couldn’t say it. Instead, tears fell as I silently said No, no, no. to myself as he walked out the door.

I didn’t want to feel depressed. I hated feeling it spread over me. I tried to stop it from coming. The moment I started to feel it, I told it, Please no, please don’t come for me today. No, no, no. But it never listened. It was a black snake, winding its way all over my body. Slithering across my stomach, to my chest, around my head, squeezing my brain so tight I couldn’t think straight. So, I simply closed my eyes and went to sleep. But when I woke up, I was still sad, still being squeezed, so I back to sleep I went.

My husband was good about keeping the dialogue about my depression going. He would come and sit with me. He encouraged me to give words to what I was feeling. He suggested going to the mall and just walking slowly. I agreed. Mall walking didn't hurt my shoulder; it was cool and comfortable, and the people-watching distracted me. Moving my body did help ease the melancholy, but life was still cloudy. All of my interactions were foggy. I couldn’t quite seem to reach people, be present for them, really hear what they were saying. Everything felt melty, there were no edges. Objects and people just mushed together in a gray, soupy world. Four weeks into my recovery, I told my best friend about the depression and how truly sad I was.

Can I tell you about my best friend? She is an actor, writer, and professor. She is a fellow empath with the most compassion for humanity I have ever witnessed. She is tall with a Katherine Hepburn-esque beauty, bright blue eyes, and dark hair. We have known each other since we were 12. We live in different states, but we communicate several times a day through Marco Polo. I think we have single-handedly kept that app alive. She knows all the things about me, even the ugly stuff I don’t like admitting to myself. Sometimes I think she knows more about me than my husband does. I marco-ed her about my depression. I'm not sure what I said. All I know is that she called me as soon as she heard my message. She was coming.

A week or so later, we were hugging in my driveway. She drove 11 hours to sit beside me on my couch or in the sand and just let me be me. She let me feel whatever I was feeling. She made space for whatever emotion I needed to process. We walked around the mall, sat on the beach, and watched ridiculous TV. Suddenly, I found myself laughing again. The depression was still there, but alongside it was that unmistakable best friend joy. My husband moved into the guest room that week so she and I could stay up late and talk in my bed while eating our standard “cheese feast” (a charcuterie board). There was one night when our neighbors got into a hellacious fight about a girl. It was midnight, and they were yelling about who deserved to go out with her. We still giggle at the memory of me walking outside and yelling, “ENOUGH! Take it inside, boys!” We get a little emotional thinking about the first time she heard the tick of my heart as we watched TV. Sometimes she can hear it on my Marcos. In a way, it makes us feel even closer. I mean, how many people get to hear their best friend’s heartbeat?

Far too soon, she had to return to her life and her people, but her presence kick-started my determination to beat the depression. She let me process the diagnosis, the surgery, and the recovery process. She asked questions, and she made space for whatever answer I gave. Her presence motivated me to fight back against depression. Recovery was hard, but joy and laughter still existed. The week after she left I got clearance to begin Cardio Rehab three times a week. I made it a goal to exercise, stay off the couch, and list my joys every day. Don’t get me wrong, depression was still present, it’s a sticky mother*****r but it didn’t squeeze so tight. However, a nagging thought clung to me.

Who am I now?

Everything I once used as an identity for myself was gone. Who you are before facing mortality and major surgery is very different from who you are after. I had been stripped of all the security I once had about my health, finances, and identity. For several months I had to step back from my work, which meant the bills, that had been mounting, were continuing to grow. I was not able to work-out like I wanted. A scar marked my chest, I had to take meds all day long, my body looked different, my brain worked differently, and I felt different. I couldn’t stop asking myself, Who am I now?

I didn’t realize answering this question was the biggest part of recovery